Like a book
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: S2. M! insert for When the Bough Breaks.


Based on a prompt from **Shutterbug** , as usual prompt at the end and, again, I apologise for the length of time between prompting and story.

* * *

He works himself into a rage long before he finally reaches for his coat, intent on finding her and having it out once and for all.

It's _anger_.

No, no it's not.

It's scorching _fire_ and adrenalin.

It's the seething burn of midnight blue behind his eyelids as he downs his scotch. It's words he can't find and frustration a growl under his breath.

And _everything_ with a blue hue.

It's that dress and the hurt in her eyes that she refused to acknowledge. The tone of her voice, almost broken then fiery with fury, that all have him gesturing to himself, open mouthed, conversations and arguments with a woman that isn't _here_.

Well, damn it, she should be. They should be having this argument _properly_ and in person and if that means turning up on her doorstep, then that is what will happen.

Castle throws open the door and collides with Beckett.

He gapes and she fumes.

Standing there, bright sparks of violence high in her cheeks and the smudge of eyeliner that instantly has him gritting his teeth. Angry with the both of them.

Did he make her cry?

"No you didn't," she growls pushing him away so she can march into his home. Beckett whirls on her heel and pokes him hard in the chest, "how dare you?" She barks, "How dare you cast her aside like she means nothing to you."

He's confused, mad, stepping away from her accusing fingers, "Who? Paula? She's my -"

"Not her." Beckett yells, "Nikki!"

"Nikki?" he blanches, "That's what this is about?" Fuck, it stings.

"Isn't that what it's _always_ about?" Her fists clench as she throws out the accusation, angling her chin to him, defiant, deflecting and _oh no, Beckett_ , not this time. He can read that hurt clear as day and she's not putting this all on him.

"You wanted me gone from day one, and now, now someone else actually wants me writing for them, _now_ is when you decide Nikki is good enough?" He scoffs, steps around her. "I don't think so Beckett."

" _You_ said she wasn't good enough, not me." She yells the accusation, "You said there wasn't enough to the woman, enough to keep you interested when you've barely scratched the surface of what a complex character -"

"Don't tell me about her _character_ ," he roars back, "I wrote her. I live with her everyday, in here," he taps his head, "and here." He smacks a palm against his heart, fists his shirt in his fingers. "Don't think because something I've _dreamt_ about doing since I was a _child_ is offered to me, that she doesn't linger in the back of my mind, whispering that I'm letting her down." he turns away, turns back again immediately, "Because she does, Beckett, I hear her _voice_ all the damn time."

"And she's still not enough."

Rage simmers, they can both feel it, whatever _this_ is, somehow going beyond the words they throw at each other.

"You said that about _me_." He throws up his hands, steps in close, eye to eye, toe to toe. "Suddenly I'm a better writer? What changed Beckett?"

She stutters and truth scalds her skin, shared breath tangling and tugging them closer.

He can read her like a book and he hits home with one casually thrown out sentence.

"Scared you'll miss me?"

Her eyes drop to his lips, tongue slipping free and painting her own with a hot, wet line that he wants to _taste_. Her gaze flutters up and her breath escapes in short, sharp bursts, words swallowed up in the deepening depths of her eyes.

"Are you as turned on as I am?"

It's out of line, he knows it as soon as the words leave his mouth, the assumption, the leer to his tone disgusting to his own ears.

He wouldn't blame her if she slapped him and when her hands rise up he remembers it's _Beckett_ and it won't be a gentle reprimand but a teeth crunching _smack_ that sends him sprawling.

Only she doesn't, doesn't hit out or rage or even yell. She growls and fists both her hands in the open collar of his shirt and yanks him toward her.

"Yes," she hisses, hating the word as it slips out, but not hating him. Not by a long shot.

She practically glows with anger, truth and vulnerable underbelly exposed to his inquisition. Their teeth clash on the first collision.

She kisses him.

Kisses him as if she can make him forget what he knows. Yet plays right into the thoughts repetition. Miss him? Miss him? Of course she'll miss him.

She already does and he hasn't gone anywhere yet.

She grunts, frustrated, kissing him hard and unrelenting. Can't silence her inner voice and, _oh, hell_ , doesn't want to.

She nips at the air between them. Threat. Promise. Desire. Comes back and Kisses him. Again and again.

So much _better_ than punching him. She takes him apart with her touch. She kisses, moulds her body to his and melts into his warmth.

She's rough. He yelps and she bites his bottom lip.

He yelps again, growls, and he swears he can feel the deadly curve of a smile playing out against his own lips.

It's all about the battle with her, so he fights back.

One hand fists in her hair and the other winds around her waist dragging her to her toes. Heels or not he's got a few inches on her and he needs her close. Closer.

The second her tongue snakes into his mouth he knows he's done for.

It's not soft, it's forceful, and angry. Passionate, like she's about to ignite and damned if he's not going to _burn_ with her.

He backs her into his living room. Kissing her hard, their feet slide in perfect rhythm, sidestepping a table and pushing her back even as she clings to his shirt, mapping her body to the lines of his.

Serpentine fingers snake over his chest, slip low and palm him through too tight pants. She hums, satisfaction in the sound and promise in the next roll of her fingers, relishing the way he hardens at her touch.

Devil woman, her eyes flash and the rage has dipped low, smouldering in the background. Replaced by lust and somehow just as terrifying.

If they do this, what does it mean?

She feeds from his mouth, hunger and thirst as though her only chance of survival exists in the next kiss, the next, the next. On and on and on until neither of them can breathe, until they gasp and pull apart and dive right back in again.

She's sizzling to the touch and her back meets the edge of his dining room table and before their lips can be dragged from each others once more he's lifting her up. Castle steps into her, hums, wrapping her legs all the way around him. He palms the naked length of her thighs, parts them to fit better between, leaving white hot fingerprints over her skin.

Her blood is thundering in her ears. Loud, rushing, leaving her brain and meeting him wherever he touches her. Nipples hard, abs quivering, the milky white line of her throat when he licks her, tingling still. Every point of contact burns and rages, yells for more, her entire being alive and seeking him out.

Something about the feel of her legs, toned calves and ridiculously strong thighs gripping him tight just _does it_ for him. Something in the way she doesn't back down, she takes what she wants from each sweeping kiss and touch of his body leaving him growling, hands roaming in ungentlemanly fashion.

Her dress slips higher and she moans into his mouth, rocks on the table, fingers itching over his shirt like she wants it gone. As though seeking skin.

He squeezes her ass and her whole body shudders, comes alive at the new and sudden sensation.

They don't do this.

They don't kiss and make out and grope each other. They don't settle arguments by unleashing sexual fury, by teasing, by touch. They don't work each other up until one of them is whimpering, and he sure as hell doesn't palm her breasts while she's perched on the edge of the table, the edge of oblivion.

They don't but they are and they're so good at it, practised, as though all those months of arguing and clashing and chastising each other with wit has been a prelude to this exact moment. Banter as foreplay and damn if it doesn't make him want her all the more.

Her dress slips higher, thick fingers groping her thighs, shoving it skyward as she leans into his chest, lifts enough to help and loses herself in the flavour of his kiss. He's dark, aromatic, something like sunset in Fall and the earthy tones of wood fire all scorching her tongue.

She loses breath, doesn't chase it, doesn't want it back.

She wants _this_.

Him.

Their connection so strong and undeniable that she growls his name into the heated confines of his mouth, just because she wants to hear herself do it. Say it. Name _him_ as the man driving her to distraction.

He does it back, whispers darkly, not the last name that he bandies about everyday, but the sweet relief of her first name. _Kate_ a caress on his tongue.

She shivers and their lips pop apart and he's dropping to his knees in the middle of his dining room. Her eyes glaze at the intention, at the offering and they were arguing not five minutes ago, how did it become this, this fantasy made flesh?

He slips her shoe from her foot, kisses the curve of her ankle and swipes his tongue over the bone.

Her breath is a thunderous roar that leaves her chest, sigh over moan laced with shudders and _yes please, please do that again_.

He does, only higher, squeezing her calf and stroking the back of her knee, pausing there like he knows. He knows enough to bite and she cries out, feels herself shudder and practically _drip_ with anticipation.

Muscles spasm and the dark look in his eyes, the intent to feast on her, have her clenching around air and near begging him to give her relief. He won't of course, and she can't, can't beg, not yet.

Oh, but she will. The fire in his eyes tells her so. He'll make her wait, drive her to the highest point possible, push her right to the edge, before he pulls back, a soft slow tease becoming hard and intense until she can take no more and the only word she'll be able to utter, the only word that she will want to scream is -

"Castle?"

His mouth is just shy of touching, tongue, lazily swiping at her inner thigh and whilst his eyes won't meets hers, staring at what he wants instead, she watches his face intently, devouring every flicker of movement that transforms his features.

His breath cascades and she's already close, wet, hot, skin tight and one lick of his tongue, she'd fall, she just knows it. But he doesn't, instead his teeth sink in and she arches, falls, caught in the protection of his palm at her back, not letting her go far as he bites down.

It's all she can do to mumble, "Bedroom."

* * *

She meets the mattress naked, Castle falling over her in his shirt and nothing else. Somehow between the living room and the hard press of his body on hers at the door they lost all their clothes.

She doesn't remember how, yet finite detail settles into her conscious. The way he stroked her breasts as he unclasped her bra, the tangle of his fingers in her underwear as they scraped her toes and fell, forgotten, at the edge of the bed.

How he drew her down, his kiss sweeter than before. The way his skin seemed to hum beneath her touch, soft vibration of toned muscles jumping as she lay her tongue over them.

The taste of him as she kissed her way to his belt, teeth snagging at the edge, saliva drenching her mouth with yearning to take him inside.

How he'd pressed her back and peeled her apart, kissing and licking, and _loving_ every inch of skin he could lay claim to. She can remember the way she tastes on his tongue and how his long fingers can stretch and pry and _tease_ her in ways she's never dreamed of, and yes, _yes, Castle, yes_ she has thought about this before.

She hears the echo of her own confessions bouncing from wall to wall in his bedroom.

Now he's there, naked, shirt fluttering behind him, hard against her thigh and thick, warmer than she imagined. A branding iron of desire about to shatter her existence. Her body a live wire reacting to every move he makes.

"Castle?"

It's not begging, not quite and that's okay, that's as close as he can stand to let her get before he touches her again. He swipes a wrapper from the bed, hands her the protection with unspoken trust and watches, with his skin on fire, as she sits up and unravels him.

Her fingers are strong, soft, dedicated to task and she lingers as long as they can both stand as she sheaths him in latex. Thumb glancing and palms furnace hot she works him a few times and pulls, making him follow as she lays back down.

"Beckett?" She squeezes and "Kateee," slithers free from his tongue. He sighs with relief, her beautiful name unleashed and making it more real, somehow.

He lifts her thigh and she coils her legs around him, one high on his back, toe nails of the other scraping up the backs of his thigh, over his ass.

She can't keep still, wriggles with need and her hips clash and collide with the bed, his finger slipping between them to graze where she holds him, graze the wet welcome she's offering up.

His fingers slide and she pulls him in, aligns them perfectly, as though they've done this before - they'll be doing it again - and her heels lock dragging him forward.

His head falls into the curve of her shoulder, swallowed up by heat and held so tightly Castle opens his mouth and bites at her skin. The sensation is overwhelming, and her long drawn out moan, the feel of her nails dragging up his back push him so close to the edge he's convinced he's done for.

She shudders and if she comes now, he'll follow right after and it will be over before it's even begun. Castle catches at her jaw and drags her chin up, nudges her nose with his own until her eyes flash open.

Her lips are parted and every single nerve is firing with the impulse to yield, every cell is burning on the brink and he's so _hard_ , so _deep_ and so, so _Castle_ , all at the same time that she just wants to give in.

Something in his eyes tells her he won't let her.

"Not yet," he rasps, and she gasps at the darkness of his voice, deeper and heavier and more deadly than she's ever heard. Hotter too. Sexier. God, she will not survive this.

She whimpers, groans, but nods.

"Soon," he swears.

And maybe this is where she begs.

Where she screams and pleads, because _soon_ , oh soon is a lifetime away.

They draw in deep ragged breaths and Castle pulls out slow, too slow, his hips snapping and pistoning back in almost immediately. His body already against being parted from hers.

She clenches hard around him, hands tight, pinching skin, "Yes," all she can muster.

He tries to kiss her, but their lips miss and a tongue swipe for satisfaction is all he earns, the taste of her heady and more than enough.

His hips flare and she moans, lifts her legs higher, pulls him deeper and just when he thinks she won't let him go she slacks off and they begin to move together.

It's hard and fast and their fingers lock. A binding agreement that they will meet this coming onslaught as partners. Hand in hand.

He drives deep, circles on the next slide and her eyes close, lip between her teeth as she nods her encouragement.

She's losing words and he's losing focus, missing the way her skin flares pink and red with each new sensation. She lifts, bites at his neck and her teeth scrape hard over his pulse, her thigh muscles jumping against his own until he gets the meaning.

Pulling back, pulling her free, he brings her leg over his shoulder and slides back in, slow inch by burning inch, until their hips kiss and the soft cradle of her ass is resting at his thighs.

So deep her eyes are huge, so deep he can feel every muscle contort and shiver around him, so deep that with the next pull and push of his body inside hers the only sound he hears is the long, slow exhale and moan of a woman on the brink of explosion.

"Castle, more," she nods, again, please, never stop, faster, harder, every phrase she can't say aloud because her breath is taken up with holding on _bleeds_ into her expression and the powerful tug at the base of his spine is starting to sear him too.

His hips snap harder than he means and she cries out, eyes glazed.

Delighted.

Done for.

Hips snap again and her body floods his with wet warmth.

Again and again and again until the white behind his eyes turns midnight blue and the woman of his dreams is suddenly fisting her hands in his hair and dragging him down to her.

Nose to nose she catches his hand in hers, and pushing their tangled digits between their joined bodies, dragging his finger to just the right spot before she -

"God, Castle, yesssss..."

\- comes apart and takes him with her. Hard, fast flashes of delirium delight cascading free.

It bounces back and forth between them, one spurring the other on, forcing the other further and further, up, skywards and never ending.

Until, his burning cry is swallowed up by her kiss, until her moan slides deep into his chest and sets up home. Until, bodies weak, they can take no more.

They collapse together, eyes locked, somehow in sync and perfectly matched. Their orgasms splintering through them even as they lay spent, and in that silent scream of release they come to an unspoken understanding.

It's not about the book anymore.

It never was.

* * *

"Take the offer." She sighs, trailing a finger over his chest. Dawn weak at the windows and her delightfully showing no signs of leaving.

"I'm not taking the offer." He smiles like she's crazy, insanity beating in her heart as strongly as annoyance and maybe something bordering on lo -

"You should." She's gentle now, touching his cheek.

"What about Nikki?" He's already made his choice, he thinks he had long before they started arguing. Castle turns so they're side to side and face to face, his palm falling perfectly into the naked dip of her waist. But he still wants to hear her out.

"Take her too," Kate smiles, eyes still dark with the remnants of pleasure.

"What about you?" His wonders aloud, watching her intently.

"I'm not Nikki," she reminds him.

" _I_ never said you were." He touches her face, raises an eyebrow, "Doesn't mean I can't _take_ you, Beckett." He kisses her deeply, feels her moan meander over his tongue as he makes his intentions clear, "Nikki, or _no_ Nikki."

She's straddling him before he can blink. She bites her lips, smiles widely, "Think you can handle _both_ of us?"

His hands slide up the naked curve of her spine and he laughs as she melts into him again, "I think I'm up to it."

* * *

The next morning it's not so much a walk of shame as a strut of satisfaction. Her heels click and her abs ache, muscles a fiery burn that will spend the entire day reminding her of what she did. What _they_ did. How and where. And though his mother and daughter sit slightly aghast at the table she almost had intimate knowledge of, the man himself is still in a blissful state of exhaustion, spread eagled across his bed.

She bid farewell in the same way he welcomed her yesterday, on her knees, and, though he put up a valiant protest when she told him she was leaving, he couldn't muster the energy to chase her. Just a kiss, a little sloppy, a little sweet, kickstarting her day better than an espresso.

It might be cowardly to duck out and leave him to explain, but, she smirks pulling the door closed behind her, she can always make it up to him later.

Maybe twice.

* * *

 **Prompt*** after their fight at the Heat Wave book launch Kate shows up at his door in her blue dress. Angry words are followed by angry sex. Extra points if either Martha, Alexis or both catch her walk of shame the next morning.

At the height of their fight Castle says "Are you as turned on as I am?" and Kate attacks him.


End file.
